Sunny with a Chance of Pickles
by Another Fine Pickle
Summary: Jane and Lisbon's first day as a couple. Lots of banter, fun, flirting, and some monkey business too. Last chapter brings rating up to M, but probably closer to T.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

To Lisbon it felt like the end of very strange dream in which Jane had been Jane but _not _Jane, completely at a loss, waiting for truth to reveal itself, and fresh out of ruses to help it along. With his half-hearted humour he had scrabbled for firm ground, but she knew he wanted to be caught. When he kissed her and saw how she smiled at him, he had taken on that familiar faraway look; solving the puzzle, formulating a plan. She saw his impulse control start to sputter and fail, and reflexively, fearing chaos might ensue, she almost called his name. Then he sat down again, taking her hands in his own across the table, and for a moment nothing else mattered and words seemed to be pointless things, like ties, or those extra programs on a washing machine. Then she remembered their spartan surroundings and smiled.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said softly. "The truth coming out _here_."

"In an interrogation room?" She nodded. "It figures."

"I was cornered. Crippled."

"Yeah, well . . . I've dealt with some slippery customers in my time, but _you—"_

"Should've lawyered up."

"You tried every trick in the book."

"No takesy-backsies?"

"Not funny," she smirked.

"My fingers were crossed the whole time."

"They were not. Don't make me hurt you."

They paused, enjoying themselves so much it was lucky they were parted by a table, and realising all at once that their usual banter, habit of many years, had been a strange, repressed form of flirting. It suddenly seemed perfectly obvious.

"We need to get you out of here," she said, and in her thoughts she added, _to some place where we can be alone_.

He nodded absently, for in _his _thoughts, a step ahead, they were both already there.

"I spoke to Abbott outside. He's negotiating with the TSA."

"They told me he was coming."

"He seemed happy to see me. Sent me in to talk to you. Seemed to think we needed a minute."

"Oh he did?"

"Guess I'd better ask him very nicely if I can have my job back."

The man himself appeared, and a quick glance at the clasped hands on the table told him all he needed to know.

"Jane," he boomed. "TSA has agreed to release you into FBI custody. You're scheduled for a disciplinary hearing at HQ in Austin two days from now. Come with me please."

He strode out, directing a nod at the supervising TSA agent, with Jane hobbling after. Outside in the hallway a surprise awaited in the care of a burly attendant.

"Saddle up," said Abbott. "We got you your very own airport wheelchair."

"Ah . . . Thank you," said Jane. "I think I'll pass."

"The speed you're moving on foot we'll miss the next flight, and then the TSA will be _seriously _ticked off. They want you out of here ASAP. Now," Abbott fished his phone out of his pocket and started texting, "where is Cho?"

"Well this is gonna cramp your style," said Lisbon, sounding a lot more sympathetic than she looked. To Jane at least, she looked like she was _trying _to act normal and failing hopelessly. In fact, to him, she resembled a heroine in a schmaltzy stage musical who, having fallen head-over-heels in love, is about to burst into song. He gave her a derisive look, and teased from her a crooked little smile. On his returning the same, she feigned disinterest, and when his eye meandered just a little over the loose silk of her blouse—which revealed nothing, so he had to pretend—he prompted a wide-eyed glare pitifully lacking in conviction. It was a game he could have played all day, but seeing Abbott put his phone away he lowered himself into the wheelchair and sighed contentedly, his sense of indignity all but forgotten.

"You mentioned a disciplinary hearing, Dennis?"

"At 1 p.m. in the break room, day after tomorrow. Bring the 'case closed pizza'. But take tomorrow off to . . . uh . . . rest your ankle. And Lisbon, I hope you'll be joining us?"

"If you'll have me back."

"Never wanted you to leave," he smiled. And that was his final word on the matter.

They joined Cho in the main terminal building, waiting with everyone's bags and still looking very 'cop', even while carefully holding up Lisbon's three evening dresses enclosed in garment bags.

"The receptionist at the Blue Bird said you forgot these," he said, as Lisbon accepted them sheepishly. "She wanted to thank you for your stay. She hopes to welcome you both back in the future." He noted the look on Lisbon's face, and the look on Jane's face. And the awkward silence. "Anyone seen a Starbucks?"

"Ok then, let's move people," said Abbott, heading towards the restaurant area and making a bee-line for Starbucks. "It's on me," he announced.

Arrangements had been made for their return to Austin, leaving Fischer behind to wrap things up with the Islamorada Sheriff's Department and local D.A. It was over an hour till the next flight, and Lisbon spent most of it trying to bring some order to her life. She found a quiet corner, retrieved the long to-do list she had written when preparing to relocate, and began to wearily prioritise the reversal of every single entry. Then she made many phone calls, saving the one she most dreaded till last.

She had texted Marcus after abandoning her flight, but only to apologise for the delay, leaving him to assume it was work-related. She'd then had a long night to decide what to say to him, and by the end of it was absolutely none the wiser.

She could explain to him that he had pressured her, constantly, subtly at first, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes not, and that she had allowed it only because she craved the attention, an antidote to Jane's maddening, never-ending silence. She could suggest that honesty was only brave if the stakes were high, and could be a sign, not of morality, but of a severe lack of creativity and finesse. It could be said that when meddling with her career, discounting her feelings was best done out of fear of her refusal—Jane-style—and without the use of emotional blackmail. Also, that even though there had been very little romance in her life, she was pretty sure that 'what the hell' was not a phrase commonly used in marriage proposals. And last of all, she could tell him that she hated granola bars, and he should learn to make a _real _fuss, or at least some damn toast.

But none of this seemed worth sharing.

Startled by her resentment, she had realised it was misdirected, for it was her own behaviour that really bothered her. She had used Marcus, unthinkingly, as a refuge from her hopeless relationship with Jane, drawn to him only for those qualities that seemed _opposite _to Jane. She had fawned over him like she was someone else, pretended to share his interests, and turned a blind eye to every failing. It seemed that in Marcus and herself she had found perhaps the only two people in existence who couldn't see through her lies. And it struck her as ironic that, in trying to distance herself from Jane, she had been dishonest, self-centred and impulsive, displaying the same faults for which she criticised him so harshly.

She glanced over at him and then, despite everything, smiled. He was reading _Cosmopolitan_.

_Idiot_.

She dialled Marcus's number.

The conversation went much more smoothly than she had anticipated. Her feelings for Jane were no surprise to him; he had simply hoped she would choose him anyway. He wasn't jealous or broken-hearted, just disappointed, _very _disappointed, like when the Rangers didn't qualify for the playoffs last season. He said his parents were flying in next weekend to meet her and would also be disappointed. They were bringing a house warming gift. As he talked on she wondered what it might be. 'His 'n Hers' bathrobes came to mind, but after a moment's consideration she settled on a 'no pressure' gift card for _Bel Bambini_.

In less than fifteen minutes it was over.

She scrubbed at her tired eyes and then stared out the window for a while, watching planes taxiing to the runway and baggage carts trundling back and forth. Then she was roused by a rhythmic squeaking noise to find a large coffee and some food on the table in front of her, and a familiar pair of legs clad in grey stretched out at her side.

"Can hear you coming a mile off," she smiled.

"It's antique," he deadpanned, patting his wheels. "Probably worth a fortune."

"Where's your chauffeur?"

"Gary?" He gestured toward the attendant, sitting across the room. "He's giving us some privacy. And watching the flight information screen. I put him in a light trance. He'll wake up when the P.A system chimes for boarding."

"Very funny," she said, taking the coffee. "Thanks, I really need this."

"It's hot," Jane warned as she gulped half of it down. "But I see that's not a problem."

She sighed heavily. "I remember when you started at the CBI you used to drink coffee sometimes."

"That witches' brew? Yeah," he shrugged. "You coppers like to bond over doughnuts and bad coffee. It was a naïve attempt to fit in with my co-workers."

"When have you ever tried to fit in?" she scoffed.

"Well, I learned the error of my ways. But if by _coffee _you mean the result of passing hot water under pressure through correctly ground and tamped coffee beans that have been stored in an airtight container at room temperature for no more than three weeks after roasting, then yes, I am capable of enjoying coffee."

"No kidding," she smiled, too tired to muster up any of her habitual smack downs, barely able to string a sentence together in fact, and yet still aware of how deftly he was easing away her tension. Watching him as he stole the grapes from her fruit salad, she felt a resurgence of happiness, and observing the languid movement of his lips with some enjoyment—for he even looked good while eating—she recalled their kiss, brief, cautious, but a tantalising hint of what soon might follow.

The blissful but sleepy look on her face did not escape his notice, grapes or no grapes.

"The sad truth is," he began again, "I can be annoying under the influence of caffeine. Rigsby told me. Cho agreed."

As he suspected, she was watching his mouth while he spoke but not listening to a single word, and with a total absence of eye contact, her only response to the sound of his voice was a cute little lopsided smile. Charmed, he waited until she stirred before speaking again.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

She stared at him, bleary-eyed. "No you don't!"

Her alarm entertained him. He looked her up and down and smirked a little, just to make her squirm. Then he dropped the act. "You're right, I have no idea. But I'll give you a hundred dollars if you'll tell me."

Then he smiled at her with a warmth she was not yet accustomed to, and a rush of adrenaline silenced the buzzing in her head, easily succeeding where coffee had failed. Reeling a little, she actually wondered if Jane's rickety wheelchair was strong enough for two, and what would happen if she jumped him in an airport departure lounge only yards from her boss.

_Crap, _thought her inner control freak, _Crap, crap, crap. _

"Hey," he said gently, leaning in closer, "hold still." He tilted her chin upwards. "Let me . . ." With the tip of his finger he lifted a trace of cappuccino foam from her upper lip. "There."

"Oh," she breathed. "Oops." She licked her lips. "Gone?"

_High voice._

"Mm hm."

She could see him double, maybe triple checking, and smiled. "Are you sure?"

He looked _very _sure. Chuckling a little and starting to blush, she looked away. As she contemplated the leftover foam inside her cup it occurred to her that even a milk-moustache could have an up-side, and that suddenly, inexplicably she could quiver like a jelly under Jane's most fleeting touch.

"Financial Times must be a fun read today," Jane observed, looking at Abbott, who appeared to be smiling broadly into the newspaper. Next to him sat Cho, watching his three colleagues with a bemused expression.

"He's subtle, I'll give him that."

"That's some special FBI Top Secret surveillance training in action."

"That's why they pay him the big bucks."

"He could cut some peep-holes," Jane pondered. "That might work. Or maybe he's just happy about the latest OTP news."

"Huh?"

"There's about to be a big merger. Or something like that."

"OTP?"

"OTP Bank Group. One of the largest independent financial services providers in Central and Eastern Europe."

"I thought you didn't read financial news."

"I don't. But sometimes I absorb information against my will. Even a memory palace gets junk mail."

Lisbon rolled her eyes at him and yawned.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" he asked.

"Not much. TSA wouldn't let me in to see you till Abbott arrived, but they put me in a waiting room and I dozed for an hour or so."

"How did it go with Pike?"

"Oh, it was fine I guess. He was fine. I think I feel worse about it than he does. I've been . . . all screwed up."

"Hm. . . Nothing worse than a conscience."

"A _pricking _conscience."

"Now you're just splitting hairs."

"One good thing at least. I can move back into my house, my landlord hasn't signed up a new tenant yet. Though everything I own is in a big storage container halfway to D.C. Won't be back till tomorrow evening, or maybe the day after, I don't know for sure yet. So a couple of nights in a motel."

"Maybe I can help with that."

"How?"

"Well it's largely my fault you're practically homeless and had to spend the night in an airport. And Abbott says the Bureau will reimburse me for the rooms at the Blue Bird, since everyone stayed there in the end. Fate has offered me a second chance and you deserve to stay somewhere nice. My treat."

"Don't be silly! I'll be fine. And I can pay my own bills."

"Ok Beyoncé."

"It's not like I'm innocent in this mess."

He shrugged. "Since as a rule I don't atone for my sins unless you go all warrior-princess on me, you should take advantage. It would make me happy. And if you're determined to be punished, indulge your masochistic tendencies by meeting me tonight for dinner. Or just a drink, I don't mind," he finished quietly. "I'd like to see you."

She smiled. "Our first date."

"I'd call it a second date. The last decade has to count for something."

That they agreed wholeheartedly was clear, but since Abbott had already seen more than enough, Jane took Lisbon's hand, squeezed it a little, and then placed in it her forgotten cranberry muffin. "I'll speak to Dennis," he said, trying to reverse-turn his wheelchair, "ask if he knows a nice hotel. He knows Austin well. Or maybe he can give his wife a call."

"You don't seem to be moving."

"This thing needs oiling."

"Well you know what they say about bad workmen."

"It's hardly my fault the wheels won't go backwards."

"So if I push you into the ladies' room you'll be stuck?"

"I'm glad you find my impairment amusing."

"Who's laughing? I'm not laughing." She got up to help. "Your brake is on you big dummy, that's the problem."

She parked him next to Abbott and Cho, reserved a seat beside them and then went to the bar and got Jane some tea and another coffee for herself.

Abbott responded to the hotel enquiry with an infinitesimal twitch of the mouth, a clear indication to Jane that he was smirking on the inside. He regretted it at once.

"You smell nice today Dennis," observed Jane.

"Well thank you," said Abbott.

"As does Cho. Lemon oil, orange and . . . bergamot if I'm not mistaken, most likely the complimentary toiletries provided at the Blue Bird Lodge. And judging by the tiny flakes on your tie and the purple spot on Cho's shirt you enjoyed the fresh home-made pastries and blueberry pancakes at breakfast."

Abbott nodded, a little uneasily.

"I'm glad you enjoyed your stay. Now you can impress Chief Agent Shultz with a high profile case finally put to rest. I'm happy that I was able to solve it for you."

"Which is why _I _was happy to get the TSA off your back," countered Abbott.

"And while you were both eating, drinking and eh . . . _talking _downstairs. . ."

"_You _racked up quite a minibar bill," Cho pitched in. "We took care of it."

"And since _I _gift-wrapped the killer while dealing with, not one, but _three _gun-toting maniacs hell-bent on revenge. . ."

"_We . . _." Abbott trailed off, weakly, "returned your hire car."

"Thank you Dennis, Cho. I appreciate it. So perhaps now you can understand why poor Lisbon, who bears the brunt of my difficult behaviour, deserves to stay in a nice hotel for a couple of days until she has a home to go to."

Abbott called his wife.

Turning away a little, and mostly silent for the first minute or two as his wife talked, he did a good job of keeping his end of the conversation, as overheard by his colleagues, discreet and mostly unremarkable, eventually broaching the subject of hotels.

"It's for Lisbon . . . Yeah, it certainly is. . . I don't know. Maybe, maybe not . . . Heh, heh, I know . . . Not a good time . . . Not really . . . Yeah. He does . . . Hm? . . . No, I don't . . . Ah, yes . . . Yeah, just-eaten-some-bad-shellfish sick."

Throughout this exchange however, he was unaware that his wife's voice, high pitched and animated, was clearly audible to Jane, who was next to him.

"Who needs a hotel? . . . She's staying in Austin? That's great news baby! . . . No way would you keep a leash on Jane without her. . . Better make it a _nice _hotel then, know what I mean? . . . So she got rid of that guy, what's his name . . . oh you can't say right now? . . . It was something fishy. Didn't you say he talks with his mouth full? . . . And what was it he said on the phone that time, when you went back to the office late . . . _You_ _know _. . . The time Jane was your boss in that big house. You said he dressed the girls up like they were his _Charlie's Angels _. . ."

Enthralled, Jane slopped tea on the floor.

"Oh, I remember!" she went on. "He doesn't know what a canapé is! No class, no class at all, makes sense he would propose _in the office_. No wonder she looked sick to her stomach . . . And he said Jane'd understand?" She finished with a crescendo. "Jane'll understand his foot up your ass, fish boy!"

Abbott chuckled a little and then steered her attention back onto the subject of hotels, whereupon she debated which girlfriends she would call to ask, and reminded him that their anniversary was approaching and he had promised her a long-weekend vacation.

"Relax. I found a nice place," Abbott told her. "Already made the reservation."

Jane turned away, just as Lisbon returned from the restroom.

"What's up with you?" she said. "You grinning like that is never a good sign."

He grinned wider.

"You're like the Cheshire Cat," she scolded. "Cut it out. Is that tea on your shoe?"

They were interrupted by an announcement: _"Could passengers requiring special assistance and those travelling with young children please approach the gate for boarding."_

Gary appeared, in a hurry.

"Wait," Lisbon stared at Gary, and then at Jane. "I thought you were kidding," she whispered. "Did you . . .?"

"Tip him generously? Of course."

"_No_ . . . Did you—"

_"Mr Patrick Jane, please approach the desk for boarding."_

"That's me," he said happily, as Gary propelled him forwards.

"TSA just had a word with the senior flight attendant," said Cho. "They're making damn sure he gets on that plane."

Lisbon sighed. "Nothing he likes more than hearing his name over a PA system. Schools, hospitals . . . Airports."

She saw Gary a few minutes later at the bottom of the boarding stairs, folding up the wheelchair. Sticking out of the armrest pocket he found a handful of ten dollar bills.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: I'd like to thank everyone who posted such kind comments on the first chapter, they were all very much appreciated, and also very motivating when I feel 'stuck'! Since Mrs Abbott was popular she gets another little mention. Please let me know if you enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: _'no business like Cho business' _is a direct quote from the show, property of the Mentalist writing team.

* * *

><p>The boarding passes Abbott handed out put Cho next to Jane and Lisbon, and himself across the aisle. Jane, unusually, settled in the seat he had been given.<p>

"Jane. You want the aisle?" offered Cho. "Stretch your leg out?"

"No, I'm fine here," Jane replied, watching Lisbon squeeze past him to the window.

Cho sat down and pulled out a large paperback.

"What you reading, Cho?"

Cho held up _War and Peace_.

"Funny," said Jane.

"No, not really."

"Eh . . . never mind. Don't you need to check that size of luggage?"

"No. Want me to let you know how it ends?"

Jane let that one go, wondering if Lisbon was _really _fastening her seatbelt very tightly or if he was just imagining it. As she went to turn off her phone she spotted an alert.

"Voicemail," she told him, listening.

"I left you one last night."

"You did?"

"Yes I did. Pointlessly it seems."

"Well I'm sorry I didn't notice, I was a little busy. Somebody turned my life upside down." She frowned. "Is that a siren in the background?"

"Maybe."

"You put a _siren _on to get to me?"

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

"That's how he avoided a speeding ticket and possible DUI," said Cho.

"And then you jumped a perimeter fence and hurt your ankle?"

"They wouldn't let me through security," said Jane in a small voice.

She looked out the window and pointed. "One of those fences?"

He looked. "A bit higher than that."

"That's eight foot high!"

He brightened a little.

"You did that in a suit? And those old shoes?"

"No wonder you sprained your ankle," said Cho.

Jane wilted again.

"You did that for me?"

"Mm hm."

She leaned in close. "That's very heroic," she said softly. "It's like the end of a romantic movie."

"Yeah, he's like one of those bumbling English guys," said Cho, turning a page. "Hugh Grant. Or Colin Firth."

Lisbon gave up on secrecy. "I was thinking Matthew McConaughey."

"Hasn't got the abs," said Cho.

"All of that, and this is what I get?" said Jane, a little grumpy. "Is this plane gonna _go _anywhere?"

Lisbon smiled. "Hey," she said gently, "look what I have." She reached into her seat pocket. "The new season edition of _SkyMall_. And hard candy for take-off. You want some?"

"The sour ones?"

"The ones you like."

Jane leafed through _SkyMall _for a few minutes, sucking his candy, until the plane started moving.

"_Finally_," he said, staring at a yeti sculpture for the garden.

Once they were airborne, the engines, some general cabin noise and a wailing toddler afforded them a little more privacy, and Lisbon continued in an almost-whisper.

"You know, I'm impressed. Most guys would've skipped the plane-storming and just left another voicemail."

"Well you can thank Ted Randolph for that," he said quietly.

"Mr. De Jorio's lawyer?"

"The one that looks like he should be in a daytime soap."

"What about him?"

"He was Greta's secret lover. He showed up in my room after you left - Wesley too - seeking revenge. They were all fired up; a tad melodramatic, I thought. Maybe even a little amusing. But anyway, we were drowning our sorrows at the mini-bar when Randolph said, when he ended his affair with Greta, he'd been a coward . . . blind, filled with self-hatred. That he'd destroyed the best thing that ever happened to him. And I realised – so slowly it still _pains _me - that I was exactly the same. No better, worse in fact. I'd been all those things and . . ." he took a breath, "arrogant too."

"Oh. Ok." She touched his arm gently. "What about? Could you narrow it down a bit?"

"Well I thought I had everything under control. I thought I could predict your behaviour."

"Hm."

"All my expertise as a con man, my skills in observation and deduction, my—"

"Super powers."

"Yeah, my super powers . . . they deserted me. With you I was as clueless and desperate as—"

"A mere mortal?"

"Exactly."

"I can't imagine how that must have felt."

"Not very good."

"So what . . . are you saying I'm your kryptonite?"

"Yeah . . . _No_. Fear. I was afraid," he shrugged, "to face up to the truth. To be happy. So sure I would lose anyone who got close that . . . I was losing someone who got close."

"Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Mm."

"Wait," she leaned forward to look around him. "Cho, are we disturbing you?"

"Yeah, you are. But it's ok, I can read when you're done. This is a four hour flight."

"He heard everything," she whispered to Jane.

"I tried not to. It's like listening to Rigsby talk about Van Pelt, but with longer words." said Cho.

"Good hearing," Jane whispered to Lisbon, loudly. "They must teach them that at Quantico."

"Maybe we should talk about this later."

"I won't tell anyone," said Cho. "Besides, he already told a whole planeload of people how he feels. He's probably on YouTube."

"True enough," sighed Jane, seeking comfort in the pages of _SkyMall_. "In a world that manufactures and sells protein-enriched tomato ketchup, it's wise to be philosophical. Critics be damned; one lifelong regret is enough for anyone. I found my _cojones_, just not till the last possible moment. And now here I am, a fully paid-up, card-carrying, walking, talking cliché."

"Well maybe the cliché is what got me off the plane. The truth was what I wanted to hear; I didn't give a damn about _original_. Anyway," she said soothingly, "you acting like a regular person won't last. Maybe I'll get you some tights, make you a cape."

Cho closed his book.

"No good Cho?" asked Jane.

"Not great. Heavy going. Too many Superman references."

"Ah. A widely acknowledged failing of the great Russian novelists."

"Just keep reading," Lisbon flapped her hand at the book, "your Dostoevsky."

"Tolstoy."

"Whatever."

"Yes _boss_."

"I'm not your boss."

"You're getting cranky Lisbon," observed Jane.

"I just remembered I have to go back to work. I'll be the one who transferred and then didn't transfer, and broke up with one colleague and started up with another one, all on the same day."

"I have no problem with that," said Cho. "No one will. Jane drives you crazy. He'd drive anyone crazy. We're just surprised we haven't had to investigate you for his murder yet."

"What he said," agreed Jane. "Tell it like it is Cho," he yawned. "No business like Cho business."

Abbott then diverted Cho's attention by striking up a sports-related conversation, and Jane and Lisbon were left alone. Lisbon decided to cheer herself up.

"So . . . how was _Cosmo_?" she asked. "Did you learn anything?"

"Eh . . . not really. Same old, same old."

"You know it all do you? Really?"

"Hm." He weighed up the likelihood. "Not all. But ninety-nine per cent of it, yes."

They came to an amusingly sudden halt, with Lisbon not quite ready to say how much she was looking forward to seeing him prove it, and Jane, behind his cocky smile, thinking about buying the issue to make sure he would live up to his bragging.

"You look tired," she smiled. "Maybe we should both try to get some rest. Dinner tonight might be better if we're awake."

She glanced towards Cho and Abbott, still talking, then back at Jane. He already looked very sleepy, to her mind invitingly so, but he watched with renewed interest as she folded away the armrest between them and settled back, slipping her arm through his. Mindful of their colleagues she snuggled against him just a little, with an air of smug satisfaction. The look they then shared was prolonged and intimate enough to leave no doubt about their thoughts, none of which involved the kind of kiss that was appropriate in public. With every touch just then seeming so significant, they could only wait. Giving him a last rather flirtatious little smile, Lisbon laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and let out a long contented sigh.

Jane was not so relaxed. He exhaled slowly, having rediscovered that _not _doing whatever the hell he wanted could lead to huge frustration. He soon determined that the solution could be found in his copy of _SkyMall,_ which proved to be of more practical value than any of its contents when positioned carefully on his lap. He also directed the overhead air vent at himself and employed some simple biofeedback techniques. After a moment he checked that Abbott and Cho were still occupied, and then kissed Lisbon's brow gently, lingering there, taking pleasure in the contact. Tender emotions stirred, of the kind he had not expressed in a very long time. He quieted them by focusing on the trivial issue of whether or not his stubble would irritate her skin, until she made a small noise, indistinct but appreciative, and nuzzled into him. He concluded there was no urgent need to shave. Then he lowered his head to rest lightly against hers, and with a smile, drifted off into sleep.

Abbott looked over some time later and did a double-take. On a moment's reflection he was forced to admit, it was the sweetest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. Truth be told, it warmed his cynical old heart. He thought of taking a picture, but before he could even kick himself for being so soft it was too late, he could only commit the sight to memory: that Kimball Cho, on observing his sleeping colleagues, had actually smiled, a pretty big smile, and the guy had some truly magnificent dimples.

"Boss?" said Cho.

"Hm?"

"Something wrong?"

"Uh . . . no."

"You look weird."

"I'm fine. Just looking at the brother and sister over there."

"Alright, _I_ see it now. No need to rub it in."

Abbott chuckled, and then deflated a little on realising that, if they threw any sort of work bash come holiday season, his wife, after a few eggnogs, would likely try to _touch _those dimples.

Unaware, Cho went back to his book.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time they reached Austin. Lisbon, somewhat refreshed, took the chance to run some errands, having used all the clothes in her overnight bag. She made a drop-off at a laundry and dry cleaning service and then headed to a couple of familiar stores where she could quickly pick up everything she needed.<p>

Necessities taken care of, she turned her thoughts to the evening. Jane had texted her with her reservation details and they had agreed to have dinner in her hotel's own restaurant. She needed something to wear, but as time was running out she quickly decided on the white dress Jane had bought her, choosing it over the green lace one primarily, if she had to be honest, because it was more revealing. She needed shoes, having kicked off her sandals rather violently at the Blue Bird, probably under the bed. Fortunately, thanks to all her shopping for eveningwear in the last couple of months, she was able to quickly locate another pair, along with a small clutch, that had seemed too expensive when she first saw them. Now it was money well spent.

Taking a breather, she sat down on a bench in a small park area with some iced tea. As she looked at the upmarket lingerie boutique opposite she suddenly realised that, since her only available underwear was darkly coloured, she had nothing to wear _under _the dress.

"Dammit," she muttered.

She watched people entering and leaving the boutique for a few minutes, feeling a little like she was on stake-out. As she reached the bottom of her drink and air was sucked noisily through her straw for a second, she thought of Rigsby, and wondered what he and Grace would think when they heard the latest news. Then she crossed the street and peered through the store window.

It was quiet inside, near closing time, and the only sales assistant, a bored looking girl barely out of her teens, was on the phone, checking out her manicure and flicking through a magazine while she talked. This was exactly what Lisbon had hoped for. She realised it might sound crazy, but discussing her lingerie preferences with this girl seemed less desirable to her than visiting a crime scene to inspect a week-old maggot-ridden corpse.

Venturing in, she made a few selections and approached the fitting rooms unnoticed, until her phone beeped upon the arrival of a text. Immediately a door marked 'Stock Room' swung open and she was accosted by a matronly middle-aged woman with silver-grey hair in a tight bun, who bore a striking resemblance to J.J LaRoche. Lisbon almost reached for her gun. The woman's badge announced her as Hildegard, the store manager, and her sad, dark eyes squinting in daylight suggested that she did not often leave her poorly lit room.

"Good day Madam," she said. "I am here to size you."

"Oh . . . it's ok, thanks. I'm good." Lisbon flashed her a smile, sidestepped into a cubicle and closed the curtain.

She had just removed her blouse when Hildegard reappeared, her knock no more than an afterthought, and stared at Lisbon's bust with suspicion. She then confiscated everything Lisbon had picked out.

"These are incorrect, Madam," she said. "I will show you. You are looking for something pretty, for a romantic occasion, yes?"

Lisbon nodded stiffly.

Hildegard produced a little notebook and wrote something down.

"Naughty or nice?" she asked, with a supposedly playful look that, in actuality, was faintly sinister.

By way of reply, Lisbon tried to muster up a good hard homicide detective stare, but this was somehow interpreted as an answer and _also _noted down. Convinced that Hildegard could smell her fear, she misheard the word _shapewear_, and firmly vetoed looking at any _Tupperware_. However, following a few perfectly straightforward questions regarding colour, style and function, all answers faithfully recorded in her notebook, Hildegard departed. Lisbon debated the pros and cons of bolting, and then sat down, resigned. After a moment or two she remembered to check her phone, and found that the message she had received was from Jane, to confirm their dinner reservation. Typing her reply, she was startled by Hildegard's noiseless return and accidentally hit 'Send'.

_That's fun,_ said her text, nonsensically.

Left alone again with a pile of things to try on, she sent a correction:

_Sorry, meant to say 'fine', I'm kind of in the middle of we thing_.

"What the-?" she muttered. "Auto-_screw_-up!" She stabbed another correction into her Blackberry:

_*in the middle of something._

Periodically Hildegard would return to plump, truss up, tweak at straps, and generally terrorise, but since everything she offered was unfailingly beautiful and a perfect fit, Lisbon tolerated her bossiness, until, that is, she was forced to decline some items from the more adventurous 'Peekaboo' range, far, _far _from first date material in her opinion. This incurred Hildegard's wrath.

"Ah!" she cried, flinging her hands up in the air. This signalled the end of their uneasy co-operation.

"I will leave you now Madam," she said sadly. "Good day." She walked off, leaving her slightly agitated customer to get dressed.

The phone beeped again.

_You seem distracted. Everything ok?_ Jane asked.

_Ofc! _She typed firmly, _Omw 2 hotel!_

She caught a last look at her reflection in the mirror, wearing a stunning concoction of tulle and stretch silk, and began to relax. "Not too shabby," she said to herself, wondering what Jane would think if he could see her.

Another text arrived.

_You're incredible_, it said.

She looked around, confused. She peeked out of her cubicle, and checked her phone for accidental 'selfies'.

Then she replied cautiously: _Why? _

_You're a terrible liar, even by text_.

She snorted.

_Don't try to convince me you can tell if I'm lying by text! You're an idiot!_

_Errors, from someone who obsessively proof reads, suggesting stress. Use of text abbreviations, even though you despise them. And the real giveaway, overuse of exclamation points._

_Are you kidding me?!_

_Let me think. . . No. I am sure of it. Not kidding._

_Go play in traffic! Find a busy intersection!_

_I rest my case._

She had just finished sorting out which items to purchase when her phone rang. On answering she could only hear breathing.

"Jane. Quit it, I know it's you."

She hung up her favourites ready to go.

"Uh, sorry Lisbon. I just got myself some crutches. Turns out I can't walk and hold the phone at the same time."

"Oh, ok."

"Wait, you immediately leapt to crank calls, why was that?"

"I . . . don't know, no reason."

"You're definitely hiding _some_thing," he mused. "Let me see. . ."

As he continued, Lisbon rested her forehead firmly against the wall and closed her eyes.

"You're running errands . . . I can hear soft ambient music, and a few seconds ago there was a metallic sound, like hangers on a rail or hook, suggesting your location is a clothing store. You're finding it stressful, which in women most often occurs when confronted by sizing labels, harsh lighting and mirrors. _Ah . . . Aha-ha!"_

Lisbon chuckled. His delight was infectious.

"Let me guess what's coming next," she said, and attempted a low creepy voice. "'What are you wearing?'"

"Hm. Joan Crawford's on the line. But since you mentioned it, what _are _you wearing?"

"None of your damn business, that's what!" She heard him snigger. "Why did you even call me?"

"To check you aren't too tired for dinner tonight. And because I thought it would be nice to hear your voice."

"Oh. Ok," she said, and smilingly toyed with a diaphanous garment from her 'reject' pile.

"_And _because you're an incompetent texter," he finished.

She put it back.

Ten minutes later she left the store with a bag full of purchases and a smile on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Thank you everyone for the very kind reviews for my last chapter, I love reading your comments, and they're really helpful motivation-wise! Please do let me know if you enjoy this chapter, even if it's just a brief 'thumbs-up' it still means a lot (and stops me hyperventilating after posting!). No threesomes or Lady LaRoche of Lingerie in this one, maybe later?! ;-)_

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><p>Lisbon took a cab to her hotel, a large establishment in central Austin, conveniently situated for work. It was luxurious but welcoming, and although her rooms lacked the character and personal touches of a small boutique hotel like the Blue Bird Lodge, in a way she was relieved. In her memory that waterside suite had already been branded as a mere illusion of happiness, fleeting and untrustworthy, while <em>this <em>place, with its understated, elegant decor and the low familiar hum of city life coming through the open windows, made her feel comfortable and at ease. There was a balcony overlooking Lady Bird Lake, scattered about with canoeists and rowers, and a small water-park, busy with children squealing and splashing in swan-shaped pedal boats. In the bedroom stood a large four-poster bed with a beautiful tapestried headboard and the puffiest down duvet she'd ever seen. And best of all, on the coffee table stood a stunning arrangement of flowers with a note: 'See you at 8.30. Love, Uno Hoo'. She chuckled at the mistake, written in the florist's curly handwriting and adorned with superfluous love hearts.

She started getting ready for dinner, taking a long luxurious shower in the gleaming bathroom. At some point in the process however, she felt her sense of calm giving way to nerves and an inexplicable desire for everything to be perfect, culminating in her tipping out the contents of her cosmetic bag and poking through them as if the evening's success depended on one of the little pots or tubes inside. She caught the name of a lipstick shade, 'Trainwreck', and was struck by its aptness. An eye shadow in 'Half Baked', again, seemed strangely appropriate, maybe a reference to her recent past. Wondering if she had anything named 'Jackass', and what the prediction might be for her immediate future, she stared in disbelief at her favourite blush, in 'Orgasm' and her intended lip colour, 'Fire Down Below'.

"Seriously?" she said aloud.

Wondering which clowns had been paid real money by cosmetic companies to dream up those names, she finished getting ready, her sanity restored. It was almost time to leave, so she hastily straightened up the mess she'd made of the room and then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. The dress was beautiful, in a soft crepe with just enough stretch to enhance her figure, short but not _too _short, and revealing what she considered to be a tasteful amount of cleavage. There was something about it however, that left her dissatisfied, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. As she turned this way and that, assessing the problem, she thought of Jane, most likely waiting downstairs, and the answer came to her. Fiddling with the straps on her fancy new bra, she achieved an amount of cleavage slightly _more _than was tasteful. Unused to putting on a show for anyone, she smiled both at her reflection and at her noticeable lack of shame. Before leaving she did a test walk back and forth in the sandals and fared passably well, figuring she would improve after a glass or two of wine, but that after that staying upright might be touch-and-go.

She made her way down to the lobby and found Jane sitting in the adjoining lounge, his hair rumpled and a little damp as if not long out of the shower, a pair of crutches resting beside him.

"Hey," she said as he got up eagerly. "Been waiting long?"

"Oh, ten minutes or so. I got here early."

"You should've texted me. I was ready."

"Of course you were."

"_Hours _ago."

"Didn't want to rush you. Besides," he surveyed her with clear satisfaction, "you were worth waiting for."

"Oh wow," she smiled. "So this is how it's gonna be, huh?"

"Just warming up," he smiled back.

Leaning in, he kissed her on the cheek, but as his jacket brushed against her fingers she unthinkingly took hold of it, throwing his backward step slightly off balance as he avoided stress on his ankle. Momentum brought them close again and so, since opportunity had presented itself and it would be a crying shame to waste it, they kissed each other, briefly but impetuously.

They separated, a little surprised.

"Oopsy-daisy," he said.

"Whoops," she agreed, uncurling her toes.

"Are you . . . uh . . . normally this grabby on a first date?"

She shook her head, trying, without success, to keep a straight face. "It was an accident," she protested.

"If you say so."

"Are you complaining?"

"No, not at all. I just want to be prepared. You know," he added optimistically, "in case I have to defend myself."

"And how would you plan on doing that?"

"Eh . . . I'd probably have to call Cho."

They sobered up on spotting that an elderly woman sitting nearby, draped with pearls and wearing the sort of chronically bored expression only seen in the very rich, was watching them unflinchingly as she nursed a glass of sherry. Jane gave her a little wave and they moved to the restaurant.

"I seem to have entertained a lot of people recently," Lisbon sighed. "When I got off the plane last night some of the passengers clapped. And someone whistled."

"Ah." he said. "Well . . . it's good that you left before things turned ugly. I heard talk of the flight being held off. And something about sniffer dogs."

The maître-d' arrived and greeted them effusively, and was then slightly taken aback to find, after being patted on the arm and thanked, that he was holding a pair of crutches.

"Well you won over at least some of the passengers," continued Lisbon. "The lady next to me said if she were twenty years younger she'd have gone after you herself. And the man on my other side looked like he might've given you a shot too."

"That's good. I guess."

"Well at least you know you have options. You know, if you decide to play the field."

The maître-d' returned, having deposited the crutches in the umbrella stand, and they were soon seated at a candlelit table in a quiet corner.

"I see you got your shoe back on," said Lisbon. "Don't you need the compression bandage?"

"Meh, it's fine. Can't do the laces up properly yet, but I can walk on it a bit. Cho took me to get it checked out. Doctor said it was barely worth calling it a sprain. Told me to start putting weight on it, do some stretches. I made sure to get on the nurse's good side though, for the five-star painkillers."

"You mean the ones you can take with alcohol? Seriously, you and nurses."

"Well this one was more of a challenge."

"Why? Losing your touch?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Let me guess," she smirked, "all of a sudden you've only got eyes for me?"

"No. Well, yes, of _course_. But that's not why. It was a _male _nurse."

"Ok. So not really your area. You had to think outside the box. Big deal."

"He wasn't gay."

_"__Oh_."

"Why would you assume a male nurse must be gay? Some guys go to nursing school just to meet women you know."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "_Please_."

The sommelier arrived, and after some discussion they chose a fancy bottle of wine, and then turned their attention to the menu.

"Pigeon," said Jane, when they had ordered.

"Pigeon?"

"Your appetizer."

"It's squab."

"That's pigeon."

"It is? Well it's not just some pigeon off the street, the 'rats with wings' kind. It's _nice _pigeon. You know, organic, grown on a farm somewhere."

"_Grown on a farm?_"

"Roasted, with calvados and baby beets, and . . . I forget. What's wrong with that?"

"Oh . . . nothing. I like pigeons."

"Yeah, I do too. Taste like chicken."

"Not to eat. I just like them."

"Oh. Ok." She frowned. "But you're having quail. That's a tiny dinosaur too."

"Don't give a fig about quails. Can't fit them in my pocket."

"Is this some sort of showbiz humour? Because if you want take-out they have bags for that."

"I . . . ah . . . it's a long story. I'll explain some day. How's your room?"

"Oh it's fantastic. Perfect. Thank you - and for the flowers too, they're beautiful. But don't think I don't know you're changing the subject."

"You should try out the spa tomorrow," he went on, ignoring her, "I looked through the brochure while I was waiting. Two hundred dollars buys you an hour and a half in a full body wrap of rose petals and rose essential oil."

"You seem so enthusiastic about it maybe you should try it yourself."

"Me? No. _You _on the other hand . . . you should indulge yourself more. You need a touch more frivolity in your life. A dash of harmless whimsy."

"That's why I keep _you _around isn't it?"

"Ouch . . . walked into that one. But it would do you good to be pampered once in a while."

"Well maybe. It depends I guess. I just don't really want some stranger's hands all over me." It occurred to her that she had probably just implied something, and that Jane suddenly appeared to be transfixed and hanging on her every word, so she decided to finish the job in style. "I can think of better ways to spend an hour and a half and they don't cost two hundred dollars."

"Intriguing," he said. He cleared his throat. "I'll file that away to think about later."

Trying to play it cool, she leant forward for her drink and was suddenly afflicted with second thoughts about how much cleavage she was showing him. She swallowed a large mouthful of wine and wished that it was Scotch. Then she replied, in a moderately high voice, "You do that. Knock yourself out."

She sipped some more wine, holding it in her mouth, enjoying the flavours of blackcurrant and blueberry and a faint note of something she couldn't quite place, and then, swallowing, let her gaze fall to his fingers, resting against the stem of his glass. He had nice hands. Looking at them made her feel better.

"Vanilla," he said quietly, with a hint of a smile.

"Vanilla what?"

"You were tasting the wine, to distract yourself."

"Was not."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Were _too_."

"Fine," she said, feeling her poker face giving way. "You win. Maybe I'm a little nervous. I haven't quite gotten my head around . . ." she gestured back and forth between them, "_this_."

"Hm," he nodded reflectively. "Same. It's a . . . uh . . . curveball."

"Who'd have thought, huh?"

As they looked at each other she was pretty sure he could see her adoration of him written all over her idiotic face, but she didn't care. Instead she observed how his fingers now seemed to caress his wine glass, and how, with at least two full courses to endure, she'd never felt less interested in food in her entire life.

Just then both their phones beeped one after the other, as texts arrived.

"From Grace," said Jane.

_We're so happy for you! _It said_. Can't believe how long it took! Wayne says Cho owes him a hundred bucks from a ten year old bet. Now he's teaching Ben some dumb high-five-down-low thing because 'Daddy was right and Uncle Cho was wrong'. Look forward to our first double date! Love to you both, G&W._

"News travels fast," said Lisbon.

"Ah, Cho, always running his mouth off."

"Actually, it probably was him. He's probably been on Xbox with Rigsby. Grace told me - it's kind of a secret - they play online sometimes. Some sort of special-ops shoot-'em-up game, very tactical, serious business apparently. 'Chobot' and 'Waynenator', they call themselves."

"I can see why they'd want to keep _that _a secret."

She nodded, smirking.

"Still," said Jane, "that's interesting. I wonder if Wylie knows."

"I think Wylie might be too much for Cho to handle. Apparently when Wayne isn't doing so well he gets quieter and quieter until either he . . . uh . . . _rage-quits,_ I think Grace called it. Or she has to break it up by calling Wayne away with her bedroom voice."

"That'll do it," Jane mused. "He's no fool. He knows how lucky he is."

Lisbon looked at him thoughtfully as their appetizers were served.

"I'm sorry, by the way," she said, after a few minutes, once they'd had a chance to eat. "I've been kind of a bitch to you the last couple of months."

"No . . ." he said. "You haven't."

"Don't be diplomatic," she smiled. "Doesn't suit you."

"Well ok, _now. . _."

"You know I have."

He shrugged. "I have a way of bringing out the inner bitch in people."

"More than one."

"Hm . . . ok, the makings of a 'How to' manual."

"Seriously though. I was angry with you for interfering in my life when you weren't, and then I was just as angry with you when you backed off and tried to be supportive."

"Don't apologise. You don't need to be sorry about anything. Besides, if you apologise then _I'll _have to, and this . . . this'll be a very long night."

"I realised why I got so mad at you after you came back from South America. I thought I'd spent two years getting a life, and then you showed up and expected me to drop everything, and I realised that I didn't _care _about anything in Washington. It was like I'd just spent another two years waiting for you. And then I saw everything go back to the way it was before. I felt like such an idiot. When you got the Airstream . . . I hated that damn thing."

"Yeah, I picked up on that. 'Silver Bucket' – not really a term of endearment."

"You were going back to your roots, not settling down."

He swirled the wine in his glass and watched it spin. "I didn't want to make a home," he said, "not on my own."

"I thought it meant I was only ever going to be your sidekick. When you came round that night with the cannoli, I thought . . . well you probably knew what I thought."

"Not really. Had my wires a bit crossed, some dodgy reception on the old mind-reading frequency. I was convinced you would stay in Austin, that I just had to smooth things over and wait for Pike to disappear. But I've replayed that night in my head many times, how it would all have been so much better if the door had opened and—"

"_I'd _been standing there, all alone?"

"Uh, yeah. . . Let's go with that."

"What then?"

"Well I was _imagining _how it would've been better if the door had opened and I'd just punched Pike in the face."

"Oh. You're kidding. You, punch someone? Really?"

"Eh . . . yes, really. He was starting to get on my nerves. He _was_. But maybe I shouldn't have told you."

"Maybe you shouldn't have. That's a stupid thing to think about. Stupid. And childish."

"Why are you trying not to smile then?"

"I'm not. Why would I want to smile? This is my disapproving face. I can't believe you'd have an imaginary fight over me. I hope it was worth it. Did you win at least?"

"Well I don't know, I didn't imagine him punching me back. What do you take me for, some sort of an idiot?"

"I think you're every sort of idiot. All rolled up into one big _bundle _of idiot."

"And yet," he smiled, "when you say it like that you make it sound like a good thing."

Lisbon's enjoyment of his smile was ruined by the arrival of their food, her salmon with minted pea risotto and lemon butter beautifully presented and completely unwanted.

"But that whole scenario," Jane continued as they started eating, "made me reconsider my dislike of violence somewhat."

"That's not good," she said, poking her fish with her fork. "You'll be beating confessions out of suspects next."

"Eh . . . no, I only _reconsidered_. It was a passing fantasy, something to think about as I drifted off to sleep at night - leading to one very strange testosterone-fuelled dream—"

"Huh?"

"I'm kidding. But I came to the same _conclusion _as before. I'm more of a philosopher than a fighter."

"That's fine, I don't need a man to fight for me. I'm a big girl, can put up shelves all by myself and everything. But if you stick around I think I have a pickle jar I can't open."

"I can help you with that."

"Well thank you."

"My pleasure. I'll get you one of those automatic jar openers. They sell them in SkyMall."

"You're lucky we're somewhere nice or I'd pick the peas out of this risotto and throw them at you."

"_Petits pois_."

"Yes I know. French for 'small peas'. Smaller means more aerodynamic."

He looked quite pleased with himself, but she wiped the grin off his face with her next words. "I was thinking, that painting you talked about, _Violets_, the artist expressing himself without words. That's what you did in Miami. That whole big elaborate con was your _Violets _wasn't it?"

"Ah . . ." he faltered. "Well . . ."

"You wanted to remind me how much fun we have together, solving puzzles, catching the bad guys. All in a beautiful place, the beach, the hotel, dresses, dinner."

"Meh. Smoke and mirrors."

"Well it was going pretty well. You know how to make a fuss."

"And that fuss gave me the illusion of control. I fell for my own con, hook, line and sinker."

"Good. I'm glad I'm not the only sucker. There I was about to move into a new home with my boyfriend, and I was more excited about staying with you in Miami for two more nights."

"Well, never mind. What's done is done. Here, you should try this, the combination of pork with sherry gastrique and fennel sausage is . . . _mm _. . . delicious."

"Wait. One thing," she backed away from the forkful he was waving at her, "I'm curious about—"

"Uh-oh."

"If I hadn't found out it was all a set-up, what were your plans for the rest of the evening?"

"Ah-ha," he chuckled nervously, "I don't know. I hadn't really planned that far ahead."

"Yeah, _right_. All that meticulous planning and you didn't have some sort of grand finale in mind?"

"You really want to know?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"Ok, well . . . we were supposed to have a nice dinner together, _without _Abbott and Cho, catch a killer—"

"With me in heels and a strapless gown?"

"So you'd look very lovely while making your arrest, nothing wrong with that."

"What if they ran away?"

"Well now you're just nit-picking."

"And where did you think I was gonna keep my gun and my cuffs?"

He smiled brightly.

"Stop that."

"Alright, I'll admit it, perhaps I wasn't paying as much attention to the case as I _should _have."

"So we wrap things up, uniforms leave, we're alone again, then what? We have a drink to celebrate and you . . . play me like an accordion?"

"Why is it you don't remember useful things but can repeat back some line of nonsense I fed you several years ago?"

"In my mind, your crap seems to float to the top of the pile. And it's the only time I've ever been compared to an accordion. I guess it stuck."

"Ok, fine," he sighed. "I never planned to try to seduce you. I don't think I could have succeeded anyway, you're better than that. If I _had_, you would have ended up hating us both. I guess I hoped to get close _enough _that you would . . . uh . . ." he took a breath, "that you would choose me over Pike, and decide to stay. And I told myself that _eventually _I'd be . . . ready for more. But I admit," he managed a small wry smile, "I can't promise I wouldn't have acted on impulse given encouragement, and . . . eh . . . when I saw you coming down the stairs for dinner, I may have forgotten what the plan was."

"Ok," she said.

"Ok? What do you mean _ok_?"

"I mean o_k_."

"Ok then, I _guess_."

"What, you _want _me to yell at you? Because your plan was completely stupid. Unethical, immoral, insulting . . . stupid—"

"You said _stupid _twice."

"And you're a colossal jerk. But I already knew all that. And it's _still _not as bad as the time you faked a breakdown and refused to answer any of my hundreds of calls and texts for six months, leaving me to think you were lost forever and letting me sink into depression and lie awake at night worrying about you before you came back and acted like it was all a big joke. But you know, I forgave you for that. And somehow I know all this stuff about you and it doesn't really phase me. I just needed to know that I wasn't going out on a limb for you all this time for nothing."

While she talked Jane silently communicated with a waiter and ordered some more wine.

"Because you know," she went on, "when you're rude and obnoxious and act like some sort of a lunatic off his medication I don't always disapprove as much as I say I do. Maybe I've been living vicariously through you. You do the all the stuff we normal people can only dream about doing, because you can dodge the consequences."

Realising she'd stopped talking, and that she was also a little tipsy, he replied, "_Perhaps_."

She let out a long sigh of relief. "But in this case," she said affectionately, "even though you acted like a prize jerk, at least you acted like a prize jerk for _me_."

"Now you're just sweet talking me," he said soothingly. "I see what you're trying to do."

"In your dreams," she smiled, flopping back in her chair to rest. She had eaten just enough to avoid concerned questions from the waiting staff, but noticed that Jane seemed to be taking an unusually long time to finish. Eventually he gave up, the plates were cleared away and they were offered dessert menus.

"I don't want anything, I'm done," said Lisbon.

"Oh come on, it's not all posh stuff, they have some good ol' Texan favourites. There's a donut tower for two."

She hadn't the heart to refuse, but talked him down from sharing the donut tower to a less daunting trio of sorbets.

Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she was checking her appearance in the mirror when it dawned on her that Jane might be delaying because he was reluctant to go back to his Airstream or his couch on his own. She thought of all the nights he had lain in the bullpen alone after seeing her leave with Marcus, and how he must have felt. Then he had misread her feelings and intentions, and his plan to persuade her to stay had backfired badly. He had been picked apart, humbled - a little at least - and his confidence shaken. Little wonder his usual perceptiveness was failing him, but she knew he would soon recover and was glad. In the meantime he was in for a surprise.

Their dessert arrived, dainty scoops of homemade sorbet in three flavours, with fresh berries, edible flowers and artistic swirls of fruit purée. Lisbon swept aside the decorations and finished her share in six methodical spoonfuls so cold they made her gums ache.

He looked a little downcast when she declined coffee. His crestfallen face was adorable, but the novelty of playing _him _for once was only a passing amusement. She had no desire to dwell on her small victory.

"A drink in the bar maybe? It's early," he ventured as they drifted into the lobby.

She shook her head. "I'm tired. It's been a really long day. But thank you for dinner."

"Ok. See you tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course." As he moved forward to kiss her goodnight she added in a lower voice, "I was kind of hoping I'd see you when I wake up."

She took a step towards the elevator and pressed the call button, and then looked back at him with a smile.

"Are you coming?" she said.


	4. Chapter 4

_WARNING – rating has been upped to M. Contains adult material!_

_Sorry for the delay in updating, I thought I had this chapter almost ready when I posted the last one, but . . . ended up rewriting a lot, then real world interference, laptop problems etc., I did my best!_

_Thanks to Guest reviewer for reminding me of the word flummox!_

_This is my last chapter. If I write anything else, I'll try to have a plot. They're good things I hear. Thanks for reading and most of all for your kind reviews! Please leave a comment if you enjoy it—or not—I love to get the feedback!_

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

Jane was flummoxed, temporarily at least. A full half-second passed before he could comprehend his luck again taking an unforeseen turn for the better. He glanced behind him, as if to see if Lisbon was inviting someone _else _up to her room and thus avoid an embarrassing mistake, but then, in the _next _half-second, he observed the look in her eye and the surreptitious beckoning of her finger, realised she had teased him and that he didn't give a damn, and concluded that all that mattered was to stop fooling around and join her in the elevator before the doors started to close. He made it, agile despite his ankle, endorphins proving to be a powerful analgesic.

As the floor numbers ticked by and several other guests came and went, not one but _two _enquiring, "Are you going down?" before joining them anyway, a room on the top floor had never seemed less desirable. They stood side by side in silent anticipation, appearing for politeness' sake to be an average couple on an average night. They exchanged looks, and Lisbon judged from his buoyant expression that he had collected himself. She was relieved, for she did not like to see him struggle, and although in facing his fears he had proved her importance to him, far from pleasurable or romantic, it had been painful to watch. Worn out by all the uncertainty and pretence of the last few weeks, and finally free from restraint, she felt that even were the building to be suddenly engulfed in flames or the sky about to fall on their heads, she still would want nothing other than this man in her bed.

As if he truly could read her mind Jane felt for her hand and held it as they waited, and then on reaching her floor led her out of the elevator, but her comfort soon turned to alarm when, as was so often his way, he revealed an ulterior motive. His fingertips had crept to the pulse point of her wrist, and with his other hand on her waist and his eyes fixed on hers, he led her slowly, haltingly, like an incompetent but seductive ballroom dance instructor, around and about the hallway in search of her room.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said. "You know, you _could _just ask." His hand shifted from her waist, drifting downwards slightly over her hip, winning her over, quieting her objections. "Do you normally hold your subjects this close?" she said, earning only an almost imperceptible shake of his head and a faint smirk. As his hand moved a little lower, her last attempt, a croaky "You know you left your crutches in the restaurant?" was simply ignored. He would not be distracted.

"I'm . . . uh . . . finding it hard to get an accurate reading," he said rather smugly, as her heartbeat raced. "Focus on the door, Teresa. Project your thoughts."

"Son of a b-"

"Language."

She felt her cheeks flush and despite herself started to chuckle.

As expected, her heart pounded wildly as they neared the correct door, and he smiled, for he knew now how much she wanted him. Then he smiled wider, for he knew that _she knew _that he knew. His smile became a grin, triumphant but irresistible, and Lisbon, in a turmoil of irritation, amusement and frustration, teetering on the brink of making a public spectacle of them both, opened the door with an urgent need to straighten things, throw open the windows, and let the cool night air soothe her. She turned, after fussing a while over the lighting, to find him sitting on the arm of a chair, watching her. He was smirking again.

"What?" She stared at him, instantly suspicious. "You've got that look, like you've done something and you're itching to tell me about it. _What_?" She paused for thought, eyes narrowed. "Wait a second. My key . . . it was on the table at dinner. You saw my room number."

"Hm, yes. You make a good point. But you strung me along for a while. You know I'm not going to let _that _go. I have to keep up appearances."

She gave no answer beyond a longsuffering sigh, not bothered to remind him that he was a terrible loser and see how much he didn't care, but keen to see what might happen next, and in the interest of moving things along, she decided to make herself more comfortable. She bent to unfasten the fiddly straps of her sandals, and once upright again found him watching her, in an unfamiliar manner, a manner that, had they still been merely friends and colleagues, would have seemed highly inappropriate.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You know what I'm doing."

"No I don't."

"You do know, you just don't want to say it."

"Well you _look _like you're hatching one of your hare-brained plans. The kind that makes an unholy mess, and lands me up to my neck in trouble."

"That's the best kind."

"Where we dress up in stupid costumes." She moved towards him as she spoke. Pretending to be grumpy was calming. "And see how many laws we can break all at the same time."

"You need the excitement in your life."

"And then we end up being sued and suspended, and torn to shreds by the media."

"Ok. Well that's not what I was doing, but I see now why you invited me up here. We may not manage all of that in one night - I'm a little out of practice."

"Fine. I _do _know what you were doing. You were checking me out."

"Told you. You knew."

She smiled, and it felt good to encourage him for once. Tonight, keeping Jane in line was _not _what she had in mind.

"I was just taking in the sights," he said, as she pulled him up to his feet. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "Admiring the view." Glancing downwards he saw her pressing up against him in her glamorous new lingerie like something from the cover of a _Harlequin _romance. "Interesting," he said softly.

She toyed with his shirt buttons, undoing one of them, and then a couple more.

"And _that's _new," he noticed.

"What is?"

"This." The silky trim along the top of her bra was just visible, and as his finger ran along it and curled inside slightly, Lisbon almost let out an audible whimper. "I know them all. Or at least . . . I know all the _straps_. Not that I've been looking. But I notice these things. So that's what you were shopping for earlier, when I called you."

"I needed some things."

"Oh." He nodded, then gave her a sly little smile. "What else did you buy?"

"Never you mind," she smiled back, her fingers exploring the light sprinkling of hair in the centre of his chest and the warm smooth skin beyond. "Don't get even more full of yourself."

"I'm not. But it _is _nice to be able to look at you, after all this time."

"Tell me about it. You've had it easy. I'm the one always worrying about my pupil dilation."

"No need. Your pupils react to food, coffee . . ." He paused as her hand slid further inside his shirt and found his heartbeat, rapid and heavy, belying its owner's calm exterior, just as hers had done. "And sometimes," he continued, ignoring her smiles, "they even dilate when you wrestle people to the ground and cuff them . . . which I have to say is a little weird." Distracted, he finished quietly, "But if that's what you're into . . ."

She shrugged. "I forgot to ask, did you want a drink?" She let her dilated pupils telegraph the desired answer.

"Uh, no. It appears I didn't . . . don't."

"Good."

She did not intend to get him one. Instead she reached up and touched his hair, running her fingers through, amused as no matter what she did to it, each kink and curl would spring back into place on release, contrary and untamed. She knew already that she would play with it when he was sleeping, when it was time to wake up, and probably every now and then when she _wanted _him to wake up. Then she pulled him down and kissed him.

Patience was not one of Lisbon's virtues. She started cautiously enough, hoping to express the kind of feelings she struggled most to share, but this kiss was no ordinary kiss, for whatever Jane was doing to her was making her tingle all over and sending her blood rushing off to places she'd forgotten she had, and it suddenly struck her that self-control was a vastly overrated personality trait. In less than a minute her quieter, more tender feelings had been trampled by the desire to tear him out of his clothes and drag him to her sumptuous bed, already turned down invitingly by housekeeping with chocolate truffles on the pillows and towels folded into some sort of farmyard animal, and once she had flung herself onto it she needed him to be on top of her, then under her, or perhaps the other way around, and then she wanted to do everything to him that she could think of in the worst possible way.

Jane, likewise, was finding it difficult to keep his cool. As always he noticed many things, but unusually all of them were interesting, and some were simply electrifying. There was the sweetness of mango and ginger in her kiss and the fragrance of rose geranium from her hair, but even better, her skin, unscented, smelt enticingly, intimately of her and nothing else. She felt soft and slightly cool to his touch, but he did not suggest closing the windows because she had backed him forcefully up against the wall and he was _very _happy to stay there. Flushed, breathless, she was making the kind of sounds—little 'mm's and a tiny grunt or two—that would be exciting coming from any woman, but more so from _Lisbon_, his reserved and fiercely private Lisbon. For her to be fired up like this, and best of all, for _him, _was thrilling beyond words. He was wary for a second, as when agitated she could be headstrong, irritable and slightly violent, tending towards smashing things with hammers, punching people in the face—possibly him—or jumping on planes and leaving him forever, but seeing there was no cause for alarm it only remained for him to acknowledge his good luck. She had that little bit of bitch inside the nice. She was better than him but endured him at his worst. She was exactly his type. And right now she was well and truly flipping his switch. Releasing her only so she could tug his jacket off and toss it, causing a small shower of coins and paperclips from its pockets, he ditched the wall, grabbed hold of her and kissed her without concern for patience or delicate feelings or a knocked over floor lamp, until veering towards the bed they crashed into a dresser and somehow turned on the radio. Lisbon fumbled to switch off tomorrow's weather forecast, and Jane helped her by finding her ass and squeezing it. And then, as she jumped a little in response, she discovered just how _much _he was enjoying himself.

"Mr. Jane," she said, reasonably straight-faced, "I'm going to have to place you under arrest."

He took a deep breath, calming down enough to give her his amused but quizzical look, the one he reserved for crazy people.

"You're carrying a concealed weapon," she continued, opening up his shirt as if beginning a strip search. "I suspect you have no licence for that."

"_A_ha. Aha-ha. Funny. _Clever_."

"We're not going to make this difficult are we?"

"Do bad cop. I like that."

She couldn't help smiling. "I'll be _very _. . ." she ground to a halt, having with help pulled off the shirt. Staring blankly, the rest of her sentence eluded her, and for a second she felt like she'd opened a really well-stocked refrigerator but forgotten what she wanted.

"That's not bad cop," he said, disappointed.

"Jane, you're in shape for someone who only goes to the gym for the showers."

"Well that's a little harsh. I exercise. Sometimes I take the stairs instead of the elevator."

"You mean that day they were closed for maintenance?"

Indifferent to the shortcomings of his personal fitness regime, but seeing that she was intuitively using a dissociative self-calming autohypnosis technique, he helpfully backed them a little closer to the bed to be good and ready for when she was done. Her fingers clung to the indentations of his triceps as he pulled.

"And why are you so tanned? You live in a suit."

"Sometimes I fall asleep on the nudist beach."

"If there's food you eat some. You only stop to nap on your couch."

"Slendertone. Why do you think I used to lock myself in my attic?"

His joking was lost on her, as was a slight clockwise turn and few steps back.

"I guess you're pretty athletic. You're good at running away." She struggled to maintain her train of thought as he slipped the straps from her shoulders, and kissed her neck and along her collar bone. "And . . . j-jumping over things . . . _while _you're running away."

His breath felt deliciously warm on her skin and his hands began to stray, one of them easing her skirt upwards and toying with the sheer material only half covering her behind, while the other's graceful fingers trailed down her back behind a slowly descending zipper. Lisbon, meanwhile, busied herself by thoroughly losing her capacity for rational thought.

He slipped her dress off, wriggling it over her hips till it fell to the floor and she stood before him in nothing but lace-embroidered tulle. Taking her in, he looked a little goofy for a second, as if he'd just won a prize.

"_Bella donna_," he murmured, with a smile.

Revived but slightly embarrassed by the compliment, Lisbon took refuge, to Jane's great satisfaction, in bossiness, overseeing the removal of his suit pants, socks and shoes before pushing him back to sit on the bed.

"Have you worn those socks every day since I gave them to you?" she asked, putting her arms around him.

"I bought more."

"They're from a gift store in Washington!"

"I googlified the store and got them to mail me some. Besides," he looked up at her earnestly, drawing her close to him, "I like them. You bought them for me."

She smiled, utterly under his spell, before realising something had come undone, for he had deftly and secretly unhooked her bra. "I might've known you'd be good at that," she said as it slipped off. He gave it a little twirl and discarded it with a flourish.

"_Et _. . . _voilà_," he said softly.

Lisbon's chuckle was cut short as he started to kiss and caress her breasts and she lapsed into the kind of deep but accelerated breathing that, left unchecked, might eventually lead to a fainting fit. For a while she managed quite well without a paper bag to breathe into, but when he pulled her to sit facing him on his lap she knew he was determined to make trouble. His hand slipping under her was completely out of line, and with the warm palm of that hand rolling blissfully against her she thought about telling him so, and _tried _to use her words, but discovered they were gone, all gone, she knew not where. Without teasing or insults or instructions to throw at him, there was nothing else but to grab him and kiss her light-headedness away, and under such encouragement, his wayward fingers ventured within the scalloped edge of her underwear, the small feather-light movements that followed doing nothing to restore her power of speech.

"Teresa," he said after a moment, "I have a hunch, call it a _strong _hunch, that something is biting my ear. I am ninety-five per cent certain of it."

"What do you expect?" she hissed. "You're killing me."

She heard a little snigger, and as he continued undaunted, in the minute that followed, she concluded that this man was no humble accordion player, he was a virtuoso pianist, and she, it seemed, was his Steinway.

"Jane," she whispered, afraid that in her excitement she was already dangerously close to the edge. "Jane," she repeated, more insistently, like they were on the phone and she was telling him not to do something stupid. "_Jane_!" She caught his attention with her sharpest tone of voice, unfamiliar to him as, _before _she used it, he had normally hung up.

"Hm?" he said. "_Oh_." He smiled at her, proud of himself. "Calm yourself woman."

She did not calm herself, but pulled him forcibly down onto the bed, and he was just starting to remove her underwear when they heard a ripping sound.

"Ah," he said, soberly. "That's not good."

"Rip them off," she said, not caring.

"It's not yours, it's mine."

She reached around him and felt for the tear, taking longer than was strictly necessary to locate it. Then she gave him a big smile. "Looks like all that bad karma of yours finally came back to bite you on the ass," she said.

"Oh . . . heh . . . very amusing."

"Maybe some higher power decided you needed taking down a peg or two. Ok," she took charge. "Stand up. _Now _please."

"Yes ma'am. Hands in the air?"

"This is what happens when you don't buy new clothes," she lectured, stripping him.

Jane had no regrets. Being stripped by an almost naked federal officer was not an unpleasant predicament, one that might bear repeating, and as Lisbon could see, the disruption had done nothing to quell his enthusiasm.

"Well, _this _is no joking matter," she said gravely.

He didn't hesitate to finish undressing her, hurried along by the decidedly impure look she was giving him, and soon found himself enjoyably pinned to the bed, her helpless plaything, until, at least, he found the ticklish spot above her hip bone and made her shriek. Their fooling around was short-lived; having roamed far from familiar ground, curiosity and excitement prevailed, and their last remnants of patience quickly ran out.

"Wait," she panted, reaching for her bedside table and scrabbling in the drawer. Finding a condom, she discovered that Jane was already holding one, produced as if by magic. "Seems we both came prepared," she said, tearing the foil.

"Well . . . there's always hope."

"So sure of yourself."

"Well that's not true. If I was sure of myself I'd have brought more than one."

"If you were sure of yourself you should've bought new underwear."

"And you should've bought extra-large," he countered, as in her hurry she struggled to dress him for the occasion. "But I guess you already had some . . . Oh." An idea occurred to him, and he started to smile. "_Ah,_" he said.

"_Don't!_" she commanded. "Don't say a word! Don't even _think_! I can't believe you'd go there."

"Really? You can't? Perhaps in your excitement you've forgotten who I am. Patrick Jane. Pleased to meet you."

She lay down and abruptly pulled him over her. "I see from now on I'll also be dealing with your big fat ego in the bedroom," she said, reaching down for him and emphatically making her wishes clear.

"Is that what you're going to call it?" he said softly. "You flatter me."

"Bite me," she whispered. Falling silent, she caught her breath as he eased into her slowly, and watched her as only he could, her every response, however small, noticed and seemingly understood. She breathed out again, with a flicker of a smile, luxuriating in his movements, looking back at him, knowing, _hoping _he could read what she was thinking, and then kissed his mouth and every other part of him that she could reach. She soon found her sensation building fast, but just as she began to approach her point of no return, he would ease off, teasing her beyond belief.

"Oh, shi-s_heep_-dip," she gasped, the second time he did this.

"You need to work . . ." he panted, "on your dirty-talk."

"What are you trying to do to me?"

He gave a wry smile. "A little muscle reading. And interpreting your ideomotor responses. You're subconsciously showing me how you want me to touch you, through very slight involuntary physical reactions."

"Is this the Discovery Channel? Am I in a documentary?"

As if to prove his point his fingers circled several very sweet spots, forcing her to bite her lip to hide a smile.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm done now. That was just a period of calibration. I now have a gateway to your innermost sexual desires."

"Seriously? You're so full of it. But . . . oh. _Oh_." She eyed him approvingly. "Keep doing whatever _that _is."

They soon forgot about everything else, and despite a small accidental kick to his ankle that was unconducive to biofeedback and messed a little with his timing, they both ended up hot, exhausted and more than satisfied, while balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. It seemed to Lisbon, as he pulled her to safety, that he had not only found and exploited every erogenous zone she had, but probably created several new ones, and she would never, _ever _again roll her eyes at one of his 'lizard brain' lectures.

They sprawled on the bed, all overlapping arms and legs, scattered pillows and crumpled sheets. After a moment she raised herself up on her elbow, ran her fingers over the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and kissed him again.

"Sorry," he said, "I heated up a bit."

"It's ok," she said sheepishly, "I like it." She continued investigating, running the back of her fingers lightly over his cheek, his lips, his jawline. "Now I've found this new positive side to you, I think I'll be a lot more patient with you at work."

"Well that's no good. I like it when you're grumpy with me. Puts me in the mood."

"Well . . . then we have a problem, don't we?"

"Hm. Maybe we should call this whole thing off."

"We could just wait another ten years before we do it again." As he kissed her lazily she corrected herself. "Or maybe not." She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. "You squashed my bunny."

"I sure did," he smiled contentedly, eyes closed.

"You squashed my _towel _bunny."

He lifted his head. "It was a duck. How can you mistake a bunny for a duck? That's absurd."

"And you have teeth marks on your ear."

He laid his head down again, contented smile returning. "Excellent."

She ran her hand over his chest and, starting to cool down, cuddled against him. "I should probably start calling you 'Patrick'."

"Look at that. I sleep with you the one time and you go all crazy."

"I do like calling you 'Jane'."

"Because it's a girls' name. It's a subconscious way of punishing me for . . . everything."

"Yeah . . . that sounds about right. Speaking of going all crazy, where's your ring?"

"I took it off."

"You don't have to do that. Maybe _someday_," she added awkwardly. "But I don't mind it. It reminds you of your family."

He opened one eye to squint at her, as she stroked the paler band of skin left behind on his finger. Then he rolled onto his side and pulled her closer. "You know . . . how I used to make-believe I could talk to Angela? Less, over the years." Lisbon nodded. "When I was in South America, lonely I guess, I would imagine conversations . . . pretty one-sided conversations," he smiled, "you know, where I would do most of the talking—"

"And not listen?"

"Yeah, like that." He looked at her, considering. "But these were different. I wasn't talking to Angela any more, I was talking to _you_. And sometimes . . . I would write some of it down and send it to you."

Lisbon stared, clearly moved, but with no idea what to say.

"It's ok," he smiled. "It's a good thing. Moving on, making choices. Choosing to talk to the living . . . to be close to someone again. To overwrite bad memories with good ones."

"Like Grace did. Her wedding dress. And her necklace."

He nodded. "Choosing to be happy not sad, to take pleasure in everyday things."

"You've always been good at _that_."

"I got better at it. So maybe it's time to take the ring off. But wearing it does have advantages I'm going to miss. It tells the world I'm closed for business. Though _currently_," he added with a self-satisfied smile, "under new management."

"Oh _I _see. It wards off prospective customers."

"Apart from the ones that just want to pilfer the goods."

"Really? Well you can put it back on again if you want. Either way, sounds like I'll have to charge up my Taser."

"Good thinking. I don't want hordes of women following me around."

She smiled, and closed her eyes dreamily as his fingers traced little figures-of-eight on the small of her back.

"So . . . are you going to tell me?" he asked.

"Tell you what?"

"That thing you're worrying about."

"I've no idea—"

"Liar."

"Alright," she opened her eyes. "I did want to say something. I didn't say it before when I had the chance."

"Oh . . . _that_," he smiled. "It's ok, you don't have to say it."

"It bothers me. It's something people are supposed to say."

"You just told me you _want _to say it, and you said it in a roundabout way this morning. That almost counts as twice."

She still looked dissatisfied.

"You know," he said, "worrying about what you're _supposed _to do is very conformist and bourgeois of you."

"I guess. But it bothers me. Why is it so hard to say?"

"Because you're uncomfortable expressing profound emotion, and you're a cynic and an introvert."

"Takes one to know one."

"Very true."

"And now there's no point in saying it."

"I might still like to _hear _you say it."

"Ok then," she said. It suddenly seemed easy. "I do," she smiled. "I love you."

"Hmm," he pondered, and then grinned. "Yes. I _did _like that. Thank you."

"'Thank you'?" She mulled this over. "'_Thank you'?_ You know . . . that's the worst thing you can say to someone who just told you they love you. 'Thank you' is what you say when someone gives you a Hallmark card. You're supposed to say it back."

"You didn't."

"I was on a plane—"

"I know, I was there."

"On my way to live with another man! Maybe I needed a minute? But fine. Now we're even."

He smiled. "Say it again."

She stared at him. "Say it again?"

"No, that's not right."

"Say what again?"

"Perfect."

"_Oh_. That's hilarious."

With a little raise of the eyebrows, he was looking at her expectantly, and she chuckled, happy to indulge him. This time there were no pieces of furniture in the way, and as he swung her up on top of him, she found that he was more than ready.

Afterwards he smilingly watched her pull on a robe and make her way to the bathroom.

"Ah . . ." he sighed. "That was _way _too easy."

She threw something at him, bouncing it off his chest. It was a toothbrush, still in its packaging.

"You got me a toothbrush?"

She shrugged. "I'm a planner."

He looked stupidly happy, like when she gave him the socks.

Soon after, washed and with sheets straightened, they were both back in bed, cuddled close.

"You should put something on," he decided, his hand slightly restless on her rear-end. "Or I won't get a lot of sleep."

She smiled. "What about you? You have nothing to sleep in. I can lend you something." He looked at her impassively. "No? Well I have an early meeting with my landlord in the morning. If you stay here maybe I'll stop off and get you some new underwear."

"Hm. The good people of Austin will thank you for that."

"I'll look out for spandex."

"Good one."

"You can catch up on your TV, rest your ankle," she yawned, "and try not to get yourself into any more trouble."

"What sort of trouble am I going to make in a hotel room with no underwear and a sprained ankle?"

"You did a good job this evening," she smiled sleepily. "And I _do _know that if there's a way to cause a commotion you'll find it."

"Well," he sighed, "what would life be without a good commotion every once in a while?"

"Won't be perfect," she snuggled into him, closing her eyes, "but you could aim for _smaller _commotions."

"Meh. Life is short. It's here," he kissed her forehead, ". . . and then it's gone. Enjoy it."

"Mm . . . if we're lucky nothing _very _bad happens. Just a pickle or two."

Seeing she was fading fast he lowered his voice, and softly stroked her hair back from her face. "And sometimes . . . there's ice cream . . . the ocean . . . sunshine."

"Tomorrow," she murmured.

"Tomorrow?"

"Mm hm."

"What's tomorrow?"

"W-weather. Forecast."

"Ah, on the radio . . . Should be sunny."

"With a chance . . . of . . ."

Jane waited a minute, knowing there would be no end to her sentence, but watching her until he heard a tiny snore. He smiled, content, turned off the light and soon, with arms wrapped around her, he fell asleep.

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**_- Finis -_**


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